Black River, page 12
Badshah Miyan says, ‘No problem. I will return to Teetarpur and get the proper papers. It won’t take long, I know the route now.’
Outside, a motorcycle draws up, the thud of its heavy engine cutting out slowly. When the two young men see Ombir, they stand up respectfully, and Parshu makes a fumbling attempt at a salute.
‘I would have accompanied you,’ Ombir says to Chand. ‘But you had already left by the time I reached your home.’
Badshah Miyan introduces himself, and Rabia turns away from the men, leaving them to handle the formalities.
Chand is by her side. He says, ‘Come with me.’
She steps away from the other slabs, not wanting to look too closely at the unknown body in the corner, laid out like a heap of washing.
Parshu catches up with them. He has lost his air of indifference and speaks quietly.
‘It is strange for everyone at first, though we’ve grown used to it. People call this the house of the dead, but for me, it is not a dead place at all. Some of the people who’re brought in have no family. But most do. Day in day out, sister, we see one thing only. Whatever troubles people may have had, whatever faults or fights the dead may have had, once they are gone, everyone laments. Okay, almost everyone, some don’t, but mostly, people break down, they cry, they are so filled with sadness that their tears flow in rivers. And where there are tears, there must be love in their hearts, isn’t that the truth? So, this is not the house of the dead. They should have another sign put up, I would, if I was in charge. It would say, Welcome to the House of the Living.’
The slow, heavy rattle of the steel drawer. The smell of formaldehyde, and mould from the walls, strong in her nostrils.
Chand says, ‘No, this is not her. Where is my daughter?’
Rabia knows what to do. She takes his hand, forcing him to meet her gaze.
‘This is your girl, Chand,’ she says gently. ‘This is your Munia.’
He doesn’t break down. He doesn’t weep.
‘I brought some clothes, a dress, a few other things,’ she says. ‘We can’t take her back home because of the television crews. Parshu, if there is a small space, anywhere private, I’ll take care of the rest.’
Parshu says, ‘Yes, there is a room at the side. Small maintenance fee is there, okay?’
‘Maintenance fees, after all that fine talk about the house of the living,’ Badshah Miyan says, but stops Chand from fumbling in his pocket, slips the man a few Gandhis.
Chand waits in the cold room with Badshah Miyan. Parshu’s stream of talk has dwindled, and the men say nothing. In a deep crack in the wall, a spider skitters, carrying a tiny, bundled fly across to a safer place.
When she brings the child back, Chand cannot wrench his gaze away from his daughter.
He says, ‘Oh, my Munia. My beloved girl.’
Chand is like stone through all that follows. He mumbles his thanks to them, and to Ombir, but never takes his gaze off Munia, his eyes hard and dry through the drive to the crematorium, through the rituals, the mechanical droning of the pundit, through the cremation, until the moment when the fire finally blazes up, sparks scattering from the wood.
Rabia and Badshah Miyan stay the night, but the next morning, Chand persuades his friends to return to Delhi. They have their own families and lives to tend. He does not want company.
On the road outside his home, afterwards, he hears Balle Ram uneasily greeting a camera crew.
They won’t leave Chand alone.
‘Was it here?’ someone asks. A few of the villagers shake their heads, no, point to the field that Chand has not entered after he came back home. The crew, tramping through his land, his fields, without permission, their tripods sinking into the furrows as they struggle to set up.
Chand raises his head, listens as the cameras start rolling. ‘Tragedy in the quiet village of …’ ‘… as more and more Delhi residents flee to the outskirts to escape pollution, returning to a life of the land, ugly reality intrudes on their dreams … a young girl, her life cut short by …’
Sarita Devi is answering their questions. Did she play here? Were these her toys? Why was she alone?
A tiny bomb of rage and pain explodes in his chest.
Because this was her home, he says silently to the television people.
Because Balle Ram’s family was close by, and Munia could call out to them for help, which she only needed when she had climbed too recklessly, stranded herself on a high branch like a kitten, waiting for the rescue which would always come.
Because she’d always been secure here, away from the city’s dangers. Every child knew that the daylight hours were theirs. The peacocks and monkeys would not harm them. The only fear, a minor one, was of snakes when they came out from their holes in the monsoons, seeking shelter.
Their voices are growing louder, harder to ignore, as the camera approaches, pans to take in shots of her sandals, their cooking utensils outside, near the brass tap. ‘…raises the urgent question, are India’s girls ever safe? If a young girl, not even nine, is hanged from a tree right outside her village home where she was born and lived all her life, a village right near the planned Forest Dreams Villa project, what hope is there for us? Today, a simple farmer is left grieving; tomorrow, it could be one of you.’
Anger is good, anger is better than the heaviness he has been carrying. He lets it flare as the crew enters without asking for permission. They politely remove their shoes, the anchor’s expression of concern and refracted sorrow perhaps even genuine. He looks up as they fold their hands, show respect for his state of bereavement.
‘… Sorry for your tremendous loss … if you have something you’d like to share with our viewers at this time … heard that you brought your daughter up after her mother’s death, you were mother and father both to her …’
He raises his head, finally. Keeps the anger simmering in his heart but out of his voice.
‘Have you ever lost someone you loved? Any of you?’
The team look at one another, the cameraman pauses in his recording of the girl’s exercise books from school; the almost bare shelves; the precious hoard of glossy seeds and birds’ feathers she had collected on her excursions; the small canisters that held tea, sugar, dal, bajra; the painted wooden mirror that she had held up every morning to his face so that its round surface contained both of them, father and daughter; a brightly coloured picture of mountains torn from a magazine, the ragged edges pinned to the rough plaster; the clean mud floor where she had helped her aunt lay down a fresh coating of gobar at the start of summer.
‘After their funerals, did anyone come to your home, turn a camera on, and ask you how you felt? For their viewers? No? I didn’t think so. Maybe you’re only doing your job. But what kind of job have you chosen? What job is this that tells you to walk into a man’s home when a death is still fresh? To take photos of her footwear, her books?’
They are backing out, apologising. He follows them, feeling the life-giving surge of anger pounding in his blood, wanting to stay on his feet. Otherwise, he’ll turn his face to the wall and close his eyes, never open them again.
He has been more than a simple farmer. He has seen the world, been out in the world. Been a truck mechanic, a construction worker, a road builder, a part-time driver, a butcher. His daughter was born in a big city. She had been given life first by one woman, then another. Their lives could not be folded down so neatly, he wanted to tell the television people, not into these bloodless sentences, all the marrow sucked out of their experiences.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘You want to show something to your viewers, show them this.’ Picks up a yellow plastic sack, its fibres woven to resemble jute. The cameraman continues to film him, coming in for a close-up.
Chand opens the mouth of the sack, fetches out a handful of grey ashes from the brass urn inside. ‘My girl. My daughter. Here she is. Record this, no? Had enough? Seen enough?’ Unclenches his hand, lets the ashes flow into the sack, spilling over the lip of the urn. His palm as gritty as his aching eyes, the anger ebbing as suddenly as it had risen. He is left weak and empty without its bright fire in the wake of their departure.
The silence and the darkness grow as, one by one, the huts further down shutter their doors and their occupants snuff out the kerosene lamps. The night orchestra of crickets starts up, loud and insistent. Chand lies awake, staring at the thatch.
Good Arrangements
After the cremation, Ombir gets back to the station house and returns to his notes. Dharam Bir has produced an alibi, a tricky one to counter. One of the local dancers is ready to swear that he had gone to her quarters that day. As easy to take payment for a lie as for sex, to Ombir’s mind, but it will be hard to disprove. He riffles through some of the forms that have piled up while he was busy with the investigation. His head throbs. A mountain of paperwork stands between him and the now urgent need for rest and sleep.
Bhim Sain and he should go back to the factory. Or perhaps he should go on his own, take a look around, talk to people who know Dharam Bir. He closes his eyes, just for a second.
And then Bhim Sain shakes him awake. Ombir touches the side of his face, feeling the mesh pattern imprinted on his skin by the fly swatter. The hazards of falling asleep at your desk.
‘Sir, we have one more problem.’
He raises his head from the desk, his spine on fire. ‘Now what?’
‘The women are outside, sir. They say they won’t leave until we hand Mansoor over to them.’
The first of the pre-monsoon winds stirs the dust in the courtyard outside the police station. The women have gathered in front of the door. Sarita Devi sits in front, the pradhan’s formidable wife by her side. The wind picks up speed. The drapes of the women’s saris and lehengas flutter like a battalion’s flags, screaming pinks and yellows, burnt orange and incendiary blues, deep-dyed ominous reds. Their silence worries Ombir, far more than if they were raising slogans or shouting.
Two days. That’s all he needs, only two days, and they can get Mansoor out of here. It won’t be his headache any more.
Bhim Sain says, ‘Shall I order them to disperse?’
‘No. I’ll handle it.’
He steps out, sits cross-legged on the ground facing them, and waits.
They stir, whisper among themselves.
Finally, Sarita Devi speaks. ‘Give him to us.’
He folds his hands respectfully. ‘If it was up to me, he would have been in your hands on the first day itself. But I cannot release him without the approval of SSP Pilania and my superiors in Faridabad, in Delhi, much as I would like to.’
The pradhan’s wife, Bimala Devi, says, ‘This SSP–superiors business, we don’t know anything about that. They are outsiders, they don’t understand our ways. You told Balle Ram you wanted a week. That week is over, and it is time for us to decide what to do with this filth.’
‘The law will decide, not any of us. We are not outsiders, sister. Bhim Sain’s village is close enough, my in-laws live three villages away. We are on your side, but it is not in our power to release a prisoner after a case has been registered. You know that. All of you understand that we can’t do as you ask. But I promise you, justice will be done.’
Sarita Devi says, ‘The law, the law, what will we get from the law? I read newspapers, I’m not illiterate. The case will drag on in the courts for how many years? Five, ten, twenty? How long will Chand have to wait for this famous justice you promise? Already people are saying Mansoor will not hang because the crime was not so violent. The television crews are packing up and driving back to Delhi. What justice is this where a murderer lives comfortably in his cell while we die a little every day? Fetch him out, or I will go in and get him myself.’
‘The SSP is returning tomorrow. Meet him and make your request. I also saw Munia every day, I also feel anger. It is not that our hearts are so hard. But before you go in—and you will have to get past Bhim Sain and me, I cannot stand around like a two-day-old calf while you break the law—let me ask you one thing. Are you so sure that Mansoor is the murderer? If you were aware there is another suspect, would you still go in? Or would you wait and let us do our job?’
‘Another suspect? What new story is this?’ Bimala Devi says.
It’s an opportunity, and he seizes it.
‘Bimala Devi, I am on duty. I am in my uniform, and this is a police station, not some chai shop. It’s very serious to suggest to a policeman on duty that he is making something up.’
‘I didn’t mean …’ she says, wavering.
He sees a flash of doubt on Sarita Devi’s face, doesn’t let Bimala Devi complete her sentence. ‘But you said it. You are all reasonable people. You know that neither Bhim Sain nor I can reveal details of the investigation before it is done. Will you trust me? We have to complete our work. Will you give us the time we need? Just let us finish, then you can do whatever you want. But don’t take your anger out on the wrong man.’
For a moment he thinks he has won, then Sarita Devi shakes her head.
‘Chand found Mansoor,’ she says. ‘Right there. That’s enough for me. Will you give me the keys, or shall we break the door down ourselves?’
Ombir catches the sound.
‘Wait,’ he says.
Ombir has never been so relieved to hear a car coming down the empty road. He shades his eyes, staring in the direction of the sun. His spirits lift as he recognises Jolly Singh’s Jaguar. The white dust swirls in tiny spouts, funnelling towards them, and Jolly steps out, crisp in his safari suit, wiping his dark glasses clean, Balle Ram behind him.
He nods politely at Ombir, says, ‘All right. Bring him out.’
Bhim Sain looks at Ombir. It’s his call.
‘Sir, I cannot do that without the SSP’s permission.’
Jolly looks around at the crowd, raises his voice. ‘There will be no violence. No one will harm the man. Is that clear? I have your word?’
Silence, the women’s eyes blazing with anger.
Finally, Sarita Devi nods. ‘Yes, Jolly-ji. If you say so.’
‘Ombir Singh, a request to you, a personal request. There are two kinds of justice, you know? The law is one kind. But the village has its own ways. If I give you my word that the murderer—’
‘The prisoner,’ Ombir says evenly.
‘—the prisoner, if you wish, okay, that the prisoner will not be harmed, will you permit us to talk to him? I only want to ask him a few questions. Bhim Sain, please, bring him before us.’
He can make an enemy of Jolly Singh or make an enemy of the village, but not both, he can’t afford that. And Jolly is too shrewd to allow open violence.
Ombir gives in reluctantly. ‘Bring him out.’
Mansoor wishes they would stop talking to him so loudly. It bewilders him, scares him. When too many people surround him and talk to him, it makes his head hurt, his breath shorten.
That day in his village, three years ago, they had surrounded him. He had looked up impatiently from turning the claw feet of an imitation antique wooden bed, wondering why these strangers had come into his workshop.
‘What can I do for you?’ he had asked courteously.
His eyes ache from the sunlight. He is squatting on the ground, can feel the firm grip of someone’s hands on his shoulders. Mansoor doesn’t mind that so much, but he wishes they wouldn’t shout. They are arguing, the crowd is growing, and he hunches lower as hands reach out to push him, as feet move too close.
He looks up, sweat and tears streaking a path through the dust on his face. The policemen, Jolly Singh and Balle Ram are approaching. His fear forms a tight knot in his stomach.
‘Bastard,’ Balle Ram says. ‘Why did you do it? Tell me that, haramzada, just tell me why you did it, that’s all I want from you.’
The words take a while to reach him. Then he says, slowly, ‘But I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. Someone else must have.’
Balle Ram slaps Mansoor so hard he can hear the ringing in his head. He would have fallen over, but he is held up by many hands, and it triggers memories, swimming out of the darkness like malevolent fish. He starts to cry, the way he had when he had seen the poor child. He had been walking through the grove, his head down, the sweat trickling off his shaved head, and what caught his attention was her feet, the black string knotted around her ankle for good luck, the small silver snake-shaped ring around her second toe. He looked at her feet for a long while, dazed, unable to make sense of what he was seeing.
‘You lying bastard,’ Balle Ram says. ‘How long did you watch her, you fucker? I used to see you walking on that side, mumbling your nonsense, and all the time, this is what you were planning?’
Mansoor feels the slap again, he feels something twang and sting, a bone in his nose, the sharp metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
‘No,’ he mumbles. He turns away from Balle Ram.
‘Please, I didn’t do it, I looked up and she was there. That poor little one …’
Balle Ram raises his hand and Ombir says, ‘Enough.’
Mansoor Khan closes his eyes, thinks of his home, his own daughter, running around barefoot, smelling often of wood shavings because she loved playing where he worked. And the day it changed.
The sound of a man screaming. ‘This is what we do to bastards like you,’ someone says. Pushed out into the light, blinking from the sun. The men kicking him into the street have their cell phones out. He feels his ribs snap. More screams. Dust on the ground blurring his vision. Someone is asking for water. He feels a patch of damp spreading under his back. Not his blood. The other man’s blood. He turns his head. It looks like a bundle, a pile of clothes. The raised blade of an axe. The man groaning, ‘Kill me, but give me water first.’
‘Not a drop,’ a voice says. ‘We’re not wasting water on you haramzadas. Okay, wait, focus is shaky. Yes. Fixed it. You can start now.’ The axe, coming down. Again and again. The pile of rags jerking in the air. Then the screams stop. ‘Bring in the next one.’ Someone grabs his hair, turns his head roughly the other way. ‘No,’ he tries to say, but something is stuffed in his mouth. A shit-smeared rag. The stench, sickening. Gagging, trying and failing to spit it out. Then he sees her, understands who ‘the next one’ is. In his head, he is screaming at the top of his lungs, silent screams that no one can hear, as they drag his seven-year-old daughter out of the workshop into the street.
